


Curb Your Kink

by dummythetragedy



Category: South Park
Genre: Kenny is smart, Kyle can NOT stress this enough, M/M, Panty Kink: The Fic, a heaping mess, by sjw britney spears, every other sentence is about kyle’s hair it’s all i care about on this bitch of an earth, gender roles are toxic, its awkward af 0/10 would not reccomend, smut is not my forte so prepare for The Worst, this whole fic is a trigger warning welcome to the fandom, what can I say god moves through me, “this isn’t his first gay rodeo” is all i’m willing to apologize for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 03:37:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummythetragedy/pseuds/dummythetragedy
Summary: The four times Kyle is a straight laced lad and the one time that he's honest.





	Curb Your Kink

**Author's Note:**

> "I don’t even know how you wrote nine thousand words of pre-fucking." -Choking_Noises

The first time he’s legitimately propositioned _,_ not to be confused with the usual trademarked Kenny brand of harmless, but oh so very lewd flirting, they’re in a room full of witnesses.

Heidi and Wendy had selflessly offered their intellectual assistance to anyone struggling with their college applications, organizing an afterschool meet up at the public library for any and every student in need. Who also had fifty bucks to spare. When nearly everyone in their year showed, Kyle’s help was requested and easily gained with the promise of a sizable amount of petty cash. He in turn enlisted Kenny, luring him in with the same deal.

Kenny is his first choice for back up simply because Kenny is smart; Smart enough to not care a bit that the majority of people believe the contrary to be true. Kyle is maybe less smart in this regard, as he has gotten himself into a variety of heated arguments and a few full blown fist fights over the subject of his friend’s intelligence.

As he watches Clyde and Craig lift Kenny off of the carpeted floor, feet first so that he can drink from the library’s water fountain upside down, Kyle wonders why he bothers.

He takes a stabilizing breath in through his nose and out of his mouth before excusing himself from Butters’ empathy inducing but ultimately annoying panicked babble centered around not getting into a college good enough for his parents’ approval. What had started off as relatable had tapered off into powerful second hand embarrassment around the time Butters had burst into tears.

“What are you doing?” He’s mindful about not going in too hot or taking a stance too judgmental, so as not to invite any ruthless ribbing on his ‘maternal instincts’. Again. As he addresses the three, his arms and hands remain conscientiously loose by his sides, not crossing or, much worse, gripping his hips.

Kenny chokes in response and there’s a split second that Kyle worries kegstanding a public water fountain will be the cause of his demise. If this happens, it will be considerably harder for Kyle to sanely plea his case for the guy’s IQ. Luckily for everyone, Kenny is lifted a bit higher and Clyde removes his hand from the machine, stopping the stream of water and allowing Kenny to desperately inhale and cough up the remaining liquid in his lungs.

“Helping,” Kenny eventually manages to squeak out, clearing his throat before continuing in as rational a tone as one can manage whilst hanging upside down, “Helping teach these lost, scared souls how to survive in a college environment. I’m giving out invaluable information over here. As I feel is my duty.”

His threadbare tangerine t shirt flops from covering his stomach to bunching around his armpits and face, really and truly painting a successful picture of someone who knows what they’re talking about.

Kyle clicks his tongue before he can stop himself, the mockingly knowing look Clyde and Craig exchange his immediate punishment. Embarrassment floods him, hand in hand with rage (as it so often is), because _fuck_ these guys. Everyone takes on a few goddamn mannerisms from their parents- Case in point, Craig’s dad is a complete asshole and Craig definitely didn’t fall far from the tree there. And Clyde fucking killed his mom. Fuck Clyde.

He’s ready to voice this, and more if he’s being honest with himself, because once the Broflovski floodgates of great vengeance and furious anger open there’s no chance of stopping the rant without factoring in exhaustion or tranquilizers. The beginning of the end is on the tip of his tongue when his gaze moves from the bulky metal braces accompanying Craig’s sneer to the subtle pastel purple peeking from the top of Kenny’s jeans. Lace. Kinky lace.

Kyle’s jaw snaps shut with an audible and painful clack of his teeth. The blood boiling behind his cheeks suddenly has considerably less to do with how pissed off he is.

And he isn’t the only one to take notice.

“Uh. Dude,” Clyde snorts, eyebrows going up along with the corners of his lips, “Laundry day?”

Kenny tucks his shirt underneath his chin to flash them all a grin, “Not exactly.”

Force feeding him a metric ton of ground cinnamon couldn’t make Kyle’s mouth any dryer than it is right now.

“Fag,” Craig Tucker, South Park’s most beloved homosexual, says without inflection.

“Don’t knock it,” Kenny is of course unperturbed, grin only growing broad enough to turn his dimples into caverns as his eyes slide over to meet Kyle’s, “They make the proverbial party in your pants a real rager.”

Kyle is currently dealing with the beginnings of a bit of a rager himself. Which means it is passed time to fucking _go._ Leave. Abscond. Abort-

“Just. Get back to seriously helping out. Okay?” His voice comes out sounding worse than Kenny’s earlier choking noises.

“Yes, Mrs. Broflovski.” Clyde and Craig say in unison, like the two halves of the same ass they notoriously are.

But that does do the trick more than even a subzero shower could. He shoots the pair a parting glare as they get Kenny back onto his feet, the strip of lilac vanishing behind his old shirt, never to be thought of again. The end.

Kyle’s turning to head in the direction of Butters’ ongoing breakdown when a hand grips his jacket and tugs him back.

“Hey,” Kenny says, before Kyle can get riled up enough to whirl around and throw a punch at the two other possible perpetrators, “You wanna try on a pair?”

The words are only halfway into being processed by Kyle’s short circuiting brain when Clyde’s abhorrently ugly, wheezing laugh puts the question into context.

Kyle jerks violently away from him, unpleasantly hot underneath his coat and hat with betrayal and humiliation and other things made even less appropriate now. He starts stomping off without looking back, spitting out a sincere,“Fuck you, Kenny,” that’s loud and vitriolic enough to come out of a mouth that’s foaming.

The second time is later that day, but it’s at least in a private setting.

Kyle steps out of the shower and grabs a towel, a billow of pungent, flowery fragrant steam following him.

His hair being the ungodly abomination that it is, he has to treat the terrifying mass of gravity defying curls with a plethora of TLC if he wants them to be manageable enough to hide under an ushanka. The first step in taming the beast is using an overtly feminine shampoo and conditioner made especially for his cursed, pubic-like hair type. Sure,  more masculine options are available on the site they buy the product from, but those hadn’t worked half as well when he tried them out and his mother refuses to waste money on something more expensive and less effective than the old reliable ‘rose strawberry cream dream’ scented bottle of pink, girly gook.

He had once tried to point out that getting a routine brazilian blowout like she herself does would save them even more money, because he could just use grocery store brand crap like literally every other person in town does. The look he’d been on the receiving end of after the suggestion had effectively and indefinitely put the argument to bed.

Unfortunately, the stench of the leave in conditioner always stubbornly and potently lingers until his next wash. His only option is to use the most eyestingingly manly arctic pain body spray he can get his hands on and coat himself to the point of dampness anytime he leaves the house. Stan, the only one outside of his family entrusted with his dark secret, has told him that he gets ripped on for smelling like a douchebag more than he ever would for smelling like a chick. Stan’s dark secret is that he is not all that bright. I can smell this

Mostly dry, Kyle steps into some sensible gray boxers, viciously swatting away any thoughts of this afternoon the action resurfaces and rushing to throw on his baggy pajama shirt and pants before his brain can swindle itself into reminiscing about a delicate swath of colorful, intricate patterns of lace and- God _dammit_.

With unsteady hands, he shoves his feet into socks and hurls a scathing look at the blowdryer ready to go atop of the bathroom counter. At the moment, he doesn’t really possess the inner zen necessary to stand in front of a mirror for upwards of half an hour, meticulously blowing down his curls as flat to his head as they’ll go. He’ll just use an avalanche of gel in the morning and deal with the random crunching noises against his hat throughout the day.

He leaves the bathroom after spending a lazy few seconds scrubbing his head with the towel. Water is already dripping from the ends of his hair onto his top and trailing on the floor beneath him before he turns the light off.

“Goodnight, bubbe!” His mother calls out as he nearly noiselessly walks past her door. Her _closed_ door. Truly a wonder how he's never successfully managed to sneak out.

"Night, Ma.”

He enters his bedroom quickly and quietly, shutting his door in the same manor. He’s working on building up an iron clad resolve not to jerk off when his gaze falls to his suspiciously open window. It’s January in Colorado; That window hasn’t been opened since October, when a stick of Stan’s hippie incense set off the hypersensitive fire alarm.

The mystery is solved when a dramatic spin of his desk chair reveals Kenny sat with his legs folded atop of it. He greets Kyle with a smile and a half assed finger gun. As things stand, Kyle briefly wishes it were a real gun.

“Get out,” He hisses, jamming as much malice into his tone as he can while keeping his voice down. His eyes go from narrowing at Kenny, to reflexively sweeping the room for any sign of his hat, to narrowing once again when he remembers that the garment is downstairs, happily tumbling away in the dryer. “Shit.”

“Calm down,” Kenny whispers, as if this won’t encourage an opposing result, “I just want to say sorry, okay?"

“Not okay,” Kyle counters, feeling a full scale freakout coming on as his hair becomes less and less weighed down by water and the artificial scent of flowers and fruit start to permeate the air in earnest. On the bright side, soon the curls will grow large and bushy enough to probably cushion his fall if he dives head first out of the window. “How the hell did you even get up here without breaking your neck?”

Kenny, as if riding bitch on Kyle’s train of thought (or because it’s ball-shrivelingly cold outside), jumps to his feet and gently closes the window, “Cartman gave me some tips and tricks.”

“Wow. That’s. Actually the worst thing you could’ve said.”

“I could’ve said _practice_.”

“As great as this apology is going,” Kyle moves to cross his arms, awkwardly stopping himself at the last second and stiffly moving them back to where they’d been, “Can it maybe wait until tomorrow?”

“No,” Kenny shakes his head, plopping down onto the corner of Kyle’s sloppily made bed, “Because if I try to talk to you about it at the bus stop, the guys will ask questions and you’ll get even more pissed off at me for bringing it to their attention. But, if I wait any later than that, you’ll be even _more_ pissed off, because you’ll assume I’ve either forgotten about it or just don’t care. Both of those routes lead to you stewing in anger directed at me for a full eight hours of school, and I don’t really want to be murdered on the bus ride back home. So. No. It can’t wait.”

Kenny is very smart. Kyle knows this. But he also knows that it’s _very_ inconvenient right now and that he’s only got one, normally inconceivable, option if he wants Kenny out of his room as soon as possible.

“Okay. I… It’s. Okay. It’s okay,” He’s going to fucking _vomit_ , “Everything’s good. Forgiven. Whatever. See you tomorrow.”

Cartman recently claimed to have had an orgy with every member of a K-Pop group consisting of fifteen women. That story had put less disbelief on Kenny’s face than there is right now. “What?”

“ _What_?” Kyle challenges, despite knowing that anyone who remotely knows him would be entitled to the heaps of doubt Kenny himself is currently displaying.

Kenny crosses his arms without overthinking it, because he is a normal fucking human being, “You were almost mad enough at the library to go full were-Jersey. I considered myself lucky that it wasn’t a full moon- But everything’s cool now? Without any gratuitous grovelling on my end? Not a chance.”

“Well, why’d you even act like such a dick in the first place?!” Kyle’s vocal volume raises to risky levels, ruining the facade of him having any chill, ever. He exhales angrily through his nose, giving up completely, “Honestly, it’s not something I’ve come to expect from you, Kenny. I don’t mind you not getting involved in disagreements I have with people. It’s none of your business, not your problem. But the one fucking time you do step in, you take _Craig_ and _Clyde_ ’s side?! You’re supposed to be one of my best friends! Do you just have no sense of loyalty, or-?!”

Ike lightly bangs on the wall separating their two rooms, “ _Shut. Up._ ” It’s out of annoyance just as much as it is out of love, a warning that he’s in danger of grabbing parental attention.

Kenny takes advantage of the millisecond of silence that follows, murmuring, “It was a misunderstanding. I might have gotten a little too excited. Talked a little too loudly. Maybe forgotten that shame exists-”

“Point?” Kyle interrupts, cautiously quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Kenny says, and it’s genuine because _Kenny_ is a genuine kind of guy. But Kyle is a petty kind of guy so that alone isn’t going to make the cut. “That it came out wrong, I mean. I wouldn’t make fun of you, dude. Well. For anything other than your addiction to Axe body spray. And speaking of,” Kenny sniffs the air and Kyle’s whole body tenses, “Your room smells way fucking better than it did last time I was in here. Are you a rehabilitated man?”

“It’s,” Kyle wills away the dizzy spell that backhands him, not sure how to feel about the fact that he’s stressed enough about how he smells to make him physically ill, “Uh. My mom’s. Air freshener.”

Kenny shoots him a look that’s all cartoonishly raised eyebrows, “You good?”

“Tired,” He snaps, putting way more effort into not swaying on his feet than what could be strictly considered ‘okay’, “I was getting ready for bed.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Kenny grins, showing off the little gap between his front two stained teeth, “Thought I’d catch a peek of at least _something_ after you got out of the shower. For fuck’s sake man, even your feet are covered up.”

Kyle gives him an unimpressed look as he ever so slowly begins to unwind at the switch of topics.

“Then again, you’d probably show someone your dick faster than your hair. Is this an intimate moment for us? Are we bonding? Do I need to convert?”

“Bye, Kenny.”

“Evening, Kyle,” He springs off of the bed, apparently appeased enough with Kyle’s attitude towards him demoting from full throttle fury to exasperation, “But. You know. Offer’s on the table if you change your mind.”

He slides the window up, letting in a blast of frigid wind that grounds Kyle a bit more, enough for his vision to go back into focus. A breath heavy with relief escapes him at the assurance that he isn’t going to faint like a generic busty blonde in a cliche romcom.

“Offer?”

“The panties,” Kenny clarifies as he begins crawling into the night, all nonchalant and casual like the two words aren’t going to promptly give Kyle an aneurism, “I’ve got quite the collection, should you ever feel the need to model. I can’t say I’m the most impartial judge, but I-”

“ _Bye, Kenny_!”

Kenny, smart, shuts the window behind him and starts climbing down the side of the Broflovski residence.

This is Kyle’s cue to wholly succumb to panic, which more or less consists of collapsing onto his bed and laying idly by as the single thought of, _holy fucking shit he’s serious_ , inwardly grows louder and _larger,_ until it consumes him to the point that when he finally does fall asleep, he has weird batman dreams.

The third time is a little farther down the line. Far enough that Kyle can make eye contact with Kenny without worrying about his head shooting off of his body like a rocket from a launch pad.

They’re working on a group project for health class with Bebe and Nichole, getting little done as the four of them lounge about the sitting room in Bebe’s basement, a blank poster board and a recently emptied box of pizza in the center of them.

Nichole groans around a final bite of crust, pulling off her sweatshirt and flinging it in a random direction, “Why the hell is it so hot down here?”

“The heater’s busted,” Bebe responds from where she’s laying face down on the floor, voice muffled by the makeshift pillow of her own long ago discarded sweater, “It just does what it wants. And it wants to murder.”

“It fucking might,” Kenny says, with a mildly concerning degree of conviction. He’s already lost both his coat and shirt, and looks about ten seconds away from shucking off his faded jeans as well.

Kyle is suffering too much to add anything to the wildly unproductive chatter, and it’s his own damn fault, too.

Typically, he has no issues taking his jacket off around people. Sure, doing so might reveal some disgustingly spindly arms, but whatever, he can deal with that.

However, with the weather consistently being a miniscule temperature drop away from starting up another ice age for over a _week_ now, groggy six am Kyle hadn’t seen a near future where he’d need to strip in front of his peers. Sweaty five pm Kyle wants to fucking lynch that stupid bitch, because now he’s stuck wearing an old shirt tight enough to give away the fact that his nightmare body type is somewhere on the spectrum from pubescent emo boy on Omegle to anorexic Hollywood starlet.

As no one can be allowed this knowledge, he’s trapped under a winter coat and his usual ushanka in a house that could believably be located on the sun. Where he will remain until this project that they haven’t even _started_ is over and done with.

“You doing okay?” Nichole asks him, throwing back a few mouthfuls of water from a plastic bottle dripping with condensation.

He nods, a languid flop of his head that feels something like lifting a building up off of the ground with only his teeth, “Let’s pick a topic.”

“How to avoid heat stroke,” Kenny suggests, “We can use Kyle as an example of what not to do.”

“Fuck off,” He half heartedly huffs out.

“I don’t even remember the assignment,” Bebe confesses with a self deprecating laugh into her sweater.

“It’s easy,” Kyle hates group projects with a passion that burns hotter than his rising internal temperature, “Pick an illness that we haven’t covered in class and do a presentation. We have to cover symptoms, treatments, etcetera.”

“Symptom one of heat stroke; Using the word ‘etcetera’ in casual conversation,” Nichole slides the marinara stained cardboard out of their way as she speaks.

“No, that’s just him,” Kenny grins and the laughter the statement prompts from half of the room is _grating._

Bebe sits up with a feline like stretch and a merciful subject change, “We haven’t learned about any eating disorders. Those are illnesses, right?”

Kyle relaxes fractionally as talk shifts into where it needs to be if he wants to get out of here before melting into a Sky High-esque human puddle.

A few hours later, with the posterboard still a blank canvas, the sadistic heater’s bloodthirst only growing stronger, and Chinese food on the way, Kyle accepts that he’s going to die here.

“I’m gonna have to head home soon,” Nichole informs the group as she transfers notes from an article on her phone to her composition book, “Curfew.”

“Same,” Kyle hurriedly coughs, thanking any deity listening for the life preserver.

Bebe frowns deeply at the untouched poster board, “You guys should see if you can just crash here tonight. We still have a lot of shit to do, and we have to present tomorrow.”

The deity did not want thanks. _Fuck_ -

“I can stay,” Kenny immediately affirms, flipping through the textbook laying on his bare legs. He has just recently ditched his pants, the mid thigh length boxers underneath the jeans a complete surprise to Kyle. But that’s not a remotely helpful train of thought to chase, especially with an audience, so Kyle has instead been putting all of his focus into not passing out while doing research.

Nichole shrugs, “I’ll ask.”

Kyle doesn’t have to ask, “My mom’s not going to let me spend the night at a girl’s house, especially on a school night.” He soon realizes that he must really be out of it if he only notices how inarguably fucking _lame_ the sentence is after it’s out of his mouth.

Bebe doesn’t seem to care as she begins pulling her long blonde ringlets up into a sloppy ponytail, “Tell her you’re at Kenny’s.”

“Kenny lives next door, she’ll check.”

“Stan’s, then.”

“Also next door.”

“It’s a pretty fantastic sandwich,” Kenny very unnecessarily adds.

“My dad said it’s cool,” Nichole chews on the inside of her cheek, “... Just. Uh. Don’t let it get out that Kenny’s staying, too.”

Kenny nods sagely, “Your reputation _will_ be tarnished. I am a _whore,_ cannot stress this enough-”

“Shut up, dude,” Kyle drones, not having the energy to go into yet another long winded spiel about how Kenny referring to his sex life derogatorily is unnecessarily damaging to both his partners and himself and- Ugh, he’s giving himself a fucking migraine. How can people stand him? He is absolutely the _most_ annoying-

“Can you ask your dad?” Bebe blessedly butts in. Or maybe not so blessedly. Shit.

“Yes,” He sighs, knowing that he is well and truly fucked, “He’ll say yes.”

A few quick texts lead to the prediction coming true. After his father confirms with him that the Bebe being referred to is indeed ‘Bebe with the boobs’, he promises to cover for him with his mother and sends a parting winking emoji. If the heat doesn’t kill Kyle, the teen angst the emoticon summons certainly will.

“Let’s hurry up and finish this,” Kyle rubs at his eyelids with the heels of his hands, dread and doom circling him like a pair of ravenous lions, “So I can pass out.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The spirit keeps them all shockingly motivated, enough to multitask their way through their individual cartons of different types of lo mein and assorted egg rolls.

Kyle is gluing his portion of the assignment down to the previously virginal board in no time at all, his relief at finishing diminished by the fact that he’ll have to wait for everyone else to fall asleep before he can cool down. Which won’t happen, if over a decade of sleepovers with Kenny have taught him anything. Motherfucker is always the last one down and the first one up, no exceptions in all of their vast slumber party history.

Before he can get in the mindset to properly mope about this, Bebe collectively asks the group, “What’s your BMI?”

And Kyle instantly goes from mope to nope, “Well, Body Mass Index isn’t an accurate measure of health and it’s entirely unreliable when it comes to judging how much you should and shouldn’t weigh. The formula is flawed in the extreme; There’s so much more to consider than just height and-”

“Sweetie, that’s the point I’m trying to make,” Bebe seamlessly dismisses him before he gets out of hand, “I need to use real life examples.”

Kyle, a well over six foot humanoid tree with the waistline of a goddamn Disney princess, is admittedly the perfect candidate. But no one needs to know that.

“Mine’s actually pretty accurate,” He lies, in a shamefully obvious manner. But what kind of dick do you have to be to call a person out on something like this?

“Bull shit.” Kenny. A Kenny kind of dick.

Kyle grits his teeth, smearing glue on the poster board with brute force, “Fuck, Kenny, does it really matter?”

“Couldn’t matter less,” He concedes with ease, “So why bother lying about it?”

He blinks. It’s a good question. Why fucking _bother_? Less than a second of pondering that gives him the healthy dose of nihilism he needs to admit that the lengths he goes to in order to conceal things that just plainly and simply do not matter are _exhausting_. A drop of sweat rolls so pointedly down his spine that it shocks free a laugh.

“I don’t know, dude.”

“Take your jacket off.”

Kenny is so smart that it makes Kyle’s chest ache. “Yeah.”

He shucks off the maliciously clinging torture device and no one comments that he looks like a chick or like he’s just escaped from a concentration camp, because he’s in a room full of decent people and he’s the asshole here for not having that realization hours ago. With a rueful little shake of his head, he tosses off his hat as well, only feeling mild, debilitating horror as the overpowering artificial aroma of roses and strawberry cream speedily invades the room.

“Oh,” Kenny mumbles, chewed pencil pausing in its scrawling against his notebook for a single beat before picking back up again.

And that’s the end of it. He slowly releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in and gets back to work without fear of getting broiled alive or roasted.

The final result of their project is more than a little lackluster, but it is _done_ and that’s ultimately all that counts.

“I think we should celebrate,” Bebe, the queen of terrible ideas, decrees at midnight.

“Yes. With sleep.”

“I could go for a celebration,” Kenny, the honorary king, drawls in a suggestive tone that’s undermined by a yawn.

Nichole’s lips curl into an impish smile, confirming that Kyle will soon need to make the decision of either giving in to peer pressure or pussing out, “Do you have anything left over from your birthday party?”

“Just a few barf stains on the carpet,” Bebe laughs, “But, my mom’s book club met down here this morning, so…” She stands and walks over to the dingy fridge plugged up in the corner, pulling its door open to reveal an alarming number of tall glass bottles. “Red wine. If anyone’s feeling like a classy lady.”

Kenny hops to his feet as well, “I am nothing if not a classy lady.”

“Thought you were a whore?” Nichole teases as she joins the two others by the fridge.

“Whores can be classy,” Kenny insists with mock outrage, “I once met a whore _named_ Classy.”

“Solid argument.”

Kenny sends Kyle a grin from where he’s still laid out on the floor, “Feeling classy, Ky?”

Years upon years of Red Ribbon Weeks have prepared him for this. Nursing dozens of Stan’s hangovers have done the job even more so. He grimaces, memories of excessive whining and dealing with barf stains in his own bedroom carpet making the refusal come effortlessly, “I don’t drink.”

“Neither do I,” Kenny says, eyes big and brown and earnest enough to completely convince Kyle, despite the clear view he has of the guy currently uncorking a wine bottle with his mouth, “It is all about moderation, my dude.”

Kyle habitually worries at the inside of his cheek as he thinks it over, having more to process than usual since he’s not just going off of his own input. He trusts Kenny. Kenny’s smart.

Still. “Is this a good idea?”

Kenny shrugs, graciously accepting a fancy, long stemmed glass from Bebe, “Can’t be any worse than a crack baby athletic association.”

While he ends up being technically right, that fact doesn’t negate the severity of Kyle’s wasted state after an embarrassingly few glasses of shitty mom wine. It turns out that it's pretty hard to do something in moderation when you are wholly unsure of your own personal thresholds. Who. Fucking. Knew.

He wants to blame Kenny. Maybe get in his face and see how many buttons he’ll have to press to get Kenny to care enough to get mad back at him. Way too many, probably. And that all seems like a lot of work in comparison to just remaining curled up on a ratty couch, blearily watching Nichole try to get an archaic, fat television in front of him to turn on.

“I don’t know shit about fixing shit,” Nichole says mournfully, a slight slur to her voice.

“Bang on it,” Kyle borderline incoherently advises, as that’s the extent of his knowledge on the subject. He’s an expert in matching Stan’s diction when finishing an essay for him, and Stan is an expert on skillfully wielding tools when he has to repair something that Kyle put his foot through while hulking out. It’s a good system. “I’ll call Stan.”

Nichole laughs as she struggles with unplugging the device from the wall, “What for?”

“He’s an expert. It’s the system,” Kyle explains simplistically, having a ridiculously hard time getting his phone out of his pants pocket. “Dammit,” He hisses as he fiddles with buttons, only to have a black screen stare stubbornly back at him, “It’s dead. How did this happen to me.”

Another peal of laughter rings out from behind the TV, “It’s all gonna be fine. We’re fine, we’re _capable_. We don’t need Stan.”

Kyle whines as he presses his knees more snuggly to his chest, “ _I_ do.”

This sends the girl into full blown hysterics that shove her flat on her ass down to the floor.

“That thing has been broken since I was four,” Bebe informs them from where she’s sat on the counter by the fridge, in the middle of a daring round of strip quarters with Kenny. Daring, because Kenny had only been in a pair of boxers when they began.

As the attractive, deep blue piece of clothing is still snuggly settled around his hips and Bebe is no longer wearing a tank top, Kyle infers that Kenny had been rightly confident in his abilities going into the match. He also infers, going off of his previous point and the sureness in Kenny’s movements, that Kenny is doing moderation a lot better than he is. The bastard.

Nichole plops suddenly down onto the couch beside him, simultaneously blocking his view of the game and jostling him from his comfortable position.

“Hey-!” He snaps, but his bitching is cut off as his limbs are quickly manipulated and pulled until he’s lying on his side along the length of the couch, feet dangling off the edge and nose a milimeter away from touching Nichole’s.

“Let’s talk.”

He blinks, surprise canceling out his irritation, “What do you wanna talk about?”

“What do you want to talk about?” Nichole echoes, and the look she’s giving him makes him feel like she’s prompting him to to dish out the truth on his secret elixir for immortalization, or imploring him to share something that will be equally earth shattering and important.

But all Kyle can think up in the moment is, “Why did you break up with me in middle school?”

“You…,” An incredulous huff of laughter fans her alcohol tinged breath somewhat unpleasantly across his face, “I figured out that we weren’t… compatible. You’re not my type.”

“But I was really nice to you,” He points out, as if their fiery seventh grade love affair will be rekindled five years later on a moth eaten sofa in Bebe Stevens’ basement, “I even kissed you at that fundraiser.”

“Dude,” Nichole has a fit of offensive giggles before she’s able to continue, “You don’t kiss someone to be _nice_. Did you ever _want_ _to_? With me? Even a little bit?”

Kyle frowns, head swimming its way through molasses much too thick to be able to locate an answer any time soon, “I don’t even know what I want for breakfast tomorrow, man.”

“Advil,” Nichole tips, with a flash of a grin that leaves as quickly as it had come, “What’s _your_ type, Kyle?”

He doesn’t like these questions. He says as much, eyes slipping shut as he sinks sweetly into the couch cushions.

“They’re pretty simple.”

“No,” He contradicts, not elaborating as he snuggles deeper into the furniture.

“Why?”

Fucking _hell_ , “I don’t _know_ , I don’t fucking think about that kind of shit!”

She, as most people are, is utterly unphased by his temper, “If you _had_ to think about it.”’

He snarls something even he can’t decipher and mashes his face into the scratchy, dark purple fabric covering the sofa, intent on sleeping _now_ and ending this fun talk.

A handful of minutes pass, enough for Kyle’s heart to stop beating so rapidly and for the tension in his shoulders to dissipate. He turns his head to breathe more easily, intertwining his twiggy legs with Nichole’s athletic ones without giving the action any thought.

“Kyle.” She says, in a tone so hushed and coaxing that even he, drunk and nearly unconscious as he is, can’t confuse what she’s prompting from him.

He hadn’t truthfully needed to think about it, “Smart guys.”

“Mmhm,” Nichole sounds pleased as punch, which would normally piss him off, but the engine man has just punched his ticket for sleepytime junction and he’s seconds away from leaving the station, “Well, that rules out everyone in a ten mile radius, huh?”

“No,” He scoffs, because _god_ , how many times is he going to have to fucking say this. But even with the information worthy of being shouted from rooftops and written in smokey bold letters in the sky, he leans in even closer and is _especially_ careful to keep his voice _quiet_ , “Kenny’s super smart.”

He passes out as Nichole chokes on air.

Not nearly long enough later, two different jingles thunderously go off, one shrill and one overkill.

Kyle’s brain attempts to jump out of his ears to escape the loud noise, resulting in a throb of his head sharp enough to elicit a raspy groan.

“That’s what I like to wake up to.” A voice rough with sleep carries up from the floor next to the scoliosis inducingly uncomfortable couch Kyle’s sprawled out on. 

He peels open his crust encoated eyelids and rolls away from where he is tightly fucking cuddled up with _Nichole_ and finds Kenny getting spooned by what appears to be an entirely nude Bebe. Kenny shoots him two thumbs up that move him to ignore the scene altogether.

“What’s the noise?” He demands as his brain attempts another stupid escape, this time through his forehead, “ _Fuck_.”

Bebe violently shoots up, some vigorous bouncing confirming to the room that she is indeed naked, “What time is it?”

Her teeth are chattering. So are Kyle’s. He’s about to inquire _what the fuck,_ when Bebe shudders and hisses out, “That goddamn fucking shitty cuck _heater_ -”

“I think,” Kenny doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit affected by the house’s descent from the sun to Pluto, “Our best move here is to turn off the alarms and huddle for warmth.”

“Alarm!” Nichole flails like it’s her trigger word and she’s a Russian sleeper agent, knocking Kyle off of the sofa where he gracelessly barrels down onto Kenny, all knobbly knees and nauseating chaos.

“I like your enthusiasm,” Kenny eeks out through clenched teeth with audible cheer, despite the fact that Kyle has probably just caused some internal bleeding with his boney elbows.

His head pounds viciously in disapproval at all of the movement, flopping bonelessly atop his victim is all he can do to avoid throwing up on him instead. _God_ , how do people fucking _deal_ with this? How has Stan managed to keep his head from exploding while also having Kyle nag him within an inch of their friendship _so many times_?

Kenny coughs.

“ _Sh_.” Is all he can get out before the trilling alarms are back to mercilessly shanking each and every one of his individual brain cells.

They’re both shut off the second both of the girls locate their phones, but Kyle’s migraine sticks around like the persistent slut it is.

He whimpers pathetically into the side of Kenny’s neck, “I’m gonna die.”

“Fucking mood,” Bebe acknowledges, voice deep with grogginess and pain.

“We can’t skip,” Nichole says, but the insistence sounds weak, like she’s begging for someone to tell her otherwise.

Kenny’s a people pleaser, “Sure we can.”

“If all four of us don’t show up we might as well hand deliver a sex tape of our orgy to the rumor mill.”

“We might as well,” Kenny wholeheartedly agrees.

Bebe releases a long winded stream of creative curses, “I have volleyball practice.”

He sucks his teeth sympathetically, “Ah, well. A menage a trois is still a viable option.”

“Wrong,” Nichole corrects around a yawn.

“Understandable- Down to you and me, Kyle. What’s it gonna be?”

Kyle tunes in a lot too late to know what the hell anyone’s talking about, “Sure.”

“Really?” Kenny laughs, not only letting Kyle know that he’s been caught not listening, but also doing so _loudly_ and right in his fucking _ear_. Not taking Kyle’s full body, agonized flinch as a hint, he closes more distance until his lips are almost touching the outer shell of Kyle’s ear, “Finally gonna let me see you in some frills?”

It’s been long enough since the subject’s been mentioned for the words to be nothing more than a meaningless, teasing jab. One that will get a predictable response of _fuck off_ or something to that effect and everyone will move on. This is the only reaction Kyle can imagine that Kenny has anticipated.

He certainly couldn’t of been prepared for the sudden full on fucking boner that presses against his leg the second the sentence leaves his mouth.

Kyle sure as shit isn’t. Kyle’s fairly sure he’s in the midst of a mortification fueled out of body experience, actually. Because he has erectioned his way into a goddamn corner- There’s no fucking explanation he can give Kenny that will minimize the awkwardness. It’s from cuddling earlier with Nichole? Morning wood? That would’ve been noticed already from their current position. No reason boner? Kenny isn’t _stupid_.

But he has just shifted his leg with unmistakable intention.

Kyle jumps to his feet with a speed that his throbbing brain wants to punch him in the face for, his other throbbing organ on the same page.

He swallows down a metaphorical horsepill full of humiliation, horniness, and some less metaphorical vomit before announcing in a voice that’s all hitches and breaks and squeaks that make him sound a little something like it’s his first day out of the asylum, “We’re going to be late.”

The fourth time is far too soon and Kyle is nowhere near recovery.

He spends the vast majority of the day going to absurd lengths to avoid confrontation. It starts with opting to walk to school in the snow rather than being trapped in Bebe’s car for all of the five minutes it would take to get all of them there. Thanks to this brilliant decision, he winds up being late to first period and is half sure he’ll be losing a toe or two to frostbite.

Kenny and he haven’t shared a core class in a few years, so that makes a decent portion of the day easy enough. Until Health class rolls around, and Kyle’s so chickenshit that he dickishly leaves the presentation to the rest of his group and willfully skips a class for the first time in his life.

Fortunately for his unprofessional fugitive ass, he shakily runs into the goth kids. Who are cordial enough to share their space in an inconspicuous part of the school. Throughout lunch, too. The only downside of this is having to endure terrible music while still battling a hangover, and being at risk for lung cancer from inhaling all of the unending second hand smoke.

With only one class in the day left, the inevitable bus ride home is fast encroaching. Kyle has a bona fide fucking panic attack while pretending to mull over complex equations.

This is confirmed by Tweek, who twitches his way over to Kyle’s desk when the dismissal bell rings and tentatively inquires about Kyle’s wellbeing. Kyle looks at him. Tweek nods understandingly and offers him a ride home. He’s almost relieved enough to cry.

The tears are held at bay because a ride with Tweek means carpooling with Craig Tucker. The asshole. The three of them are in the car together for a wildly impressive six minutes without incident.

“Do you have gas money?”

“Craig,” Tweek sighs, but appears to be focusing _way_ too hard on driving to say anything more.

Kyle thunks his head against the right side backseat window, nerves so highly strung he can only distantly feel his hatred for the prick. “I do.”

“Then you could’ve called a cab.”

He’s right. And closing some of that distance. Kyle thunks his head a little harder on the glass.

“Don’t damage my boyfriend’s car.”

He sets his jaw and focuses on his breathing. Stress and anger are not healthy emotions on their own, nevermind hideously meshed together.

The already slow speed of the car drops even further and Craig’s nasally fucketry starts back up, “... No, it’s okay. You don’t have to thank him or-”

“I _did_ you fucking thimble dicked _ass_ -!”

“Kyle?”

The eerie feeling of being lobotomized with an ice sickle swiftly overtakes him, yanking his rage up from the root and planting dread in its place.

He looks away from Craig’s infuriatingly blank face to steal a glance at his surroundings. Tweek has slown down because they’re about to cross the railroad tracks; Kenny’s house is directly to Kyle’s right and Kenny himself a few yards in front of the car on that same side of the road, but facing the wrong direction to be walking home. He was probably on his way to sneak into Kyle’s room again to wait him out, but that doesn’t matter. Because what he’s doing now is stalking towards the vehicle like he doesn’t fear his own death.

“Kyle!” Even muffled by proximity and glass, he sounds distinctly pissed.

“Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” Kyle’s hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood as he tries to calm down and come up with a plan. One better than just shouting _drive_ and watching Tweek scream and crash into a lamppost.

“It’s Kenny. Really,” Shockingly, Craig is no help, “You’re on your period because Kenny McCormick, the guy who showed up to junior prom in a dress, is a real threat. Wow.”

He moves to absolutely without a doubt _throttle_ him, when Kenny throws open the car door closest to Kyle and Tweek slams to a complete, frenzied stop. Kenny’s face is suddenly close enough that Kyle can see he’s less pissed and more peeved. Which is still an emotion out of character enough that Kyle’s entirely unsure on how to proceed.

“Get out of the car.”

“No,” He croaks, resorting to immaturity as his brain traitorously flatlines.

“Dude,” Kenny appears to be as unimpressed as he himself is with the regression, “You’re overreacting.”

That at least gets _some_ brainwaves spiking, unhelpful as they are, “ _Me_?! You’re the one fucking overreacting! You can’t just walk up to moving cars, Kenny- Especially _Tweek’s_! You’re lucky you didn’t get run over-”

“Get out of the car,” This time said by Craig.

Kyle tenaciously sits for a few moments, both seething and trying to get a grip on any other, smarter emotion that might make Kenny easier to deal with or incite more pity from Tweek. He fails, cursing, snatching his bookbag off of the seat, flinging himself from the vehicle, and slamming the door shut with perhaps unnecessary violence.

“Don’t offer weird people rides anymore,” Craig can be clearly heard requesting before the beat up Thunderbird is driving over the tracks and far away from the trainwreck.

The aforementioned, _abandoned_ trainwreck can only think to suppress any oncoming hyperventilation by huffing and puffing up to his full height.

“Great,” He glares down at Kenny, words trembling with what Kyle prays comes across as unbridled fury and not anything more damaging, “I’m out of the car. Now what?” It’s secretly a genuine question.

“You could tell me why you’re having a fucking meltdown. If you wanted to.” Kenny’s in on the secret, if his voice losing its slightly affrontive grit is anything to go by. And the miniscule hunch in his shoulders slumping back into his usual, awful posture. And the hand that grabs Kyle’s arm, all reassurance and concern.

“I’m not having a meltdown,” He hisses, but his throat has dried up to the point that the words crack, and it is a _wonder_ how he can manage to live up to his reputation of being the shittiest liar, even now, “I’m fine. I’m-”

“I’m calling bull shit,” Kenny warns, and it really is a terrifyingly accurate talent of his, so Kyle’s only option is to get the _fuck_ out of here- “You skipped our presentation. _You_ skipped a _class_ -”

“Everyone skips class,” Kyle snaps, shaking off the hand and power walking towards his house, as if the action has any chance of ending the conversation.

Kenny, of course, follows him, “You once _chose_ to attend a Saturday detention. You don’t skip class.”

“I-”

“ _You_ are having a crisis,” Kenny informs him, so much of a starkly calm and cool contrast to Kyle’s flippant, irate state that it makes him feel like even more of an idiot, “And _I_ am a true bro.”

To stop feeling like an idiot, Kyle quits trying to walk faster. Instead, he uses his skyscraper legs to his advantage, taking long strides that victoriously have Kenny falling behind as they reach the Broflovski’s mailbox.

“Come on, man,” Kenny tugs on the back of his jacket, the move inspiring a wave of deja vu that freezes Kyle’s shoes to the pavement of his driveway, “Listen to me for ten seconds and I’ll leave you alone.”

Kyle scowls at the door to his house, only able to stand idly by as his lips move without his say so, “Nine. Eight. Seven.” _Jesus fucking christ-_

At this point, Kenny’s smart enough to realize that Kyle is a piping hot mess that can’t currently be reasoned with. Maybe he even notices that Kyle’s internally screeching into an endless abyss and begging for the pit of uncertainty to throw him some kind of clue on how to act in this situation. But the abyss knows only anger. And Kyle is doomed.

“Here,” Kenny forces a bundled up wad of red fabric into his unexpecting hand, “A present. Or an invitation. Your call. Bye.”

Kyle’s smart enough to get himself inside before he can even think about unwadding the material. And it’s a good thing too, because his visibly unhinged mother is waiting for him when he walks through the front door.

Spending the night at a girl’s house, being late to school, skipping a class, and coming home smelling like a cigarette emporium had all amounted up to the longest, _shrillest_ shrieking fest to ever take place on their street. He’s lucky she doesn’t imbed a tracker into his skull with only her fingernails, or so he’s told during that neverending afternoon. Repeatedly. Until she finally ends the uncontrollable outrage themed rant and moves onto the disappointment and consequences themed one.

No phone, no computer, no _Stan_ (which Kyle finds offensive in terms of both his social life and the suggestion of codependency), and he isn’t allowed to leave his house until ‘further notice’. Fucking more bull shit uncertainty in his life, just what he fucking needs-

He slams the door to his bedroom shut, not responding to the challenging squawk his mother emits from downstairs. A quick look out of his closed window alert him to the facts that the sun has already fucking set and that Kenny has made good on his promise of leaving him alone. Alone. He’s alone.

His hand immediately moves to his pocket, where the silky fabric had been unceremoniously shoved into hours ago. His face heats and palms clam up just from the feel of them. Not with excitement, but with all of the gut wrenching shame that Kyle should have been anticipating and more.

Because this isn’t his first gay rodeo. And all his first gay rodeo had gotten him was a fuckton of Jewish guilt and an unhealthy hyper awareness of all of his feminine attributes. Kyle couldn’t rationally go into this again and think he’d come out of it without causing, at least, massive self destruction and, at most, the actual apocalypse.

A jagged fingernail snags in the material he’s been unconsciously fiddling with, the pull provoking a sharp inhale that tells him all he needs to know about how well he’ll be able to ignore temptation while it is literally at his fingertips.

The fifth time is quickly after Kyle slides open his bedroom window with trembling, uncooperative hands and sneaks out of it with a similar amount of finesse.

Kyle is not a heathen so he has the common courtesy to bang his open palm on the flimsy glass of Kenny’s window a few times before he’s throwing it open and crashing into the room with all of the grace and chill he is known for. None.

He jostles an already unstable looking dresser upon entry, taking down a few textbooks from atop of it in the process that unforgivingly land on his hat adorned head just as his tailbone lands on the _hardest_ of hardwood floors. He hides his cry of pain with a noise of intense displeasure directed at absolutely everything happening around him.

Kenny is calmly watching the scene unfold from where he’s sat on the twin bed on the other side of the small room, surrounded by unfolded clothes and open spiral notebooks. He appears to be only mildly surprised to see him.

“You knocked.”

Kyle wishes he had seen Kenny initially get into his own second story bedroom, _before_ he’d had the time to set up an all out revolving chair reveal. Fucker.

He stands up, scowling and wincing and breathing just a little heavily around his words because of how quickly he’d sprinted over, “Someone has to teach you some manners.” Which is porn dialogue. A direct line from one of the few videos he’d been able to watch what with his internet usage being monitored so closely. He counts down from ten before continuing, face warm. From sprinting. “I mean. I would have appreciated the warning. So.”

“Is this going to become enough of a regular thing to need rules?” Kenny’s entire vocabulary is porn dialogue.

“Thing.” The moisture in Kyle’s mouth is suddenly more like peanut butter than saliva, “Thing? What thing?”

“The window thing,” He answers, corners of his lips twitching in a visible effort not to unveil his dickishness with a grin.

“Oh,” He croaks, and after a gap of silence long enough for his hands to go from cold to clammy, he clears his throat, “No, actually. No- No _regularity_. This is-”

Kenny loudly closes the notebook in his lap, “Hit and quit it. Broflovski, you dog.”

He raises his voice, because that’s just what he often does, “This- That’s not what I’m saying! Listen!”

Kenny listens. Kyle does too. It’s far too frozen outside for crickets, but Kyle feels them and all of the awkwardness they symbolize about halfway into a minute of _listening_.

He makes a move to pull the plot out of his front jean pocket and hold the crumpled ball of fabric out to Kenny, without looking directly at the unhelpfully eye catching red, “Here.”

Kenny gets off of his bed, which Kyle takes as a step in the right direction in diffusing the tension. The situation. The tense situation. That’s it. Kyle steps forward and clumsily places the little swath of clothing into Kenny’s open hand with his own only slightly unsteady one, returning his arm stiffly to his side immediately after the transaction is complete. That’s. It.

“You don’t want to?” Kenny’s light eyebrows raise nearly imperceptively.

“I can’t.” Kyle responds. Clearly. With finality.

“Okay,” Kenny drawls out, tone considerably less definitive, “But, do you want to?”

“Look,” Kyle’s careful to maintain his no-nonsense posture and inflection, “Now’s not really a good time for me to sort through any. Personal issues.”

Kenny pulls a face that is typically reserved for when Kyle’s behavior is especially dramatic, “What’s the issue?”

Kyle mentally prepares to unlock his tragic backstory™. The impulsive and admittedly disgusting theft of Stan’s older sister’s underwear during all of the chaos brought on by her going to a college five hundred miles away. The reckless act of leaving the paraphernalia under his pillow like an _amatuer_ , which quickly resulted in his dad discovering it. A talk. His dad basically spoon feeding him a lie so that the general weirdness could be avoided- A girlfriend. Of course. Kyle clinging to that lie for a week or so until the unavoidable and worst thing a teenager ever experiences happens. The new lock on his bedroom door the next day, closely followed by the disappearance of the panties from the loose (pried open, it took him three hours) floorboard in his closet. Dinner at the table being more uncomfortable than usual for _months_.

“Y’know,” He goes with instead, for obvious reasons.

Kenny shrugs, “Fine. Let’s not _sort through_ anything, then.”

Kyle nods, looking over to the window that had apparently closed on its own behind him. He hesitates. Kenny notices.

“Let’s just,” He coughs, makes a hand gesture that means nothing, and eventually lands on squinting and shrugging again, “do it?”

For a long moment it’s just held breath and rapid blinking from the both of them.

The air rushes out of Kyle’s lungs all at once, as he makes a conscious effort not to think, “Are you asking me?”

“Well, I’m not going to stand here and demand that you take off your pants. Unless-”

“Quit while you're ahead.”

“So I’m ahead?”

In answer, Kyle Broflovski kisses a boy. Something that’s almost as alarming as him realizing he might not be all that great at it. Kenny’s lips are chapped, which has been their default state since kindergarten so Kyle isn’t so much surprised by that as he is by the complete lack of reciprocation. Kyle would pull back, if he were a quitter. He soon considers adapting to that lifestyle as the awkwardness steadily grows, seemingly peaks, only to somehow get _worse_ -

Kenny moves his lips against his. And also grabs his hips. Which is a _lot_ that manages to escalate even further in the span of five seconds as his pants are unbuttoned _and_ unzipped.

Whatever. No big deal. Just. Getting down to business. To defeat. The- Kyle’s jeans and boxers are simultaneously yanked downwards, pooling around his ankles as his eyes widen to anime character proportions.

He leans back, _“Dude_ -”

“Relax,” Kenny encourages, brushing his lips against his cheek in a chaste manner remarkably contrary to Kyle’s current dick out state, “It’s time for phase two.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Kenny’s mouth wanders down to his jaw and then his neck, distracting him from the fact he’s being slowly guided across the room until he’s sat down on a bed, bunched up clothes slipping off of his feet and down to the ground. Kenny follows suit, disconnecting from the dip between Kyle’s neck and shoulder to kneel in front of him. Kyle resists the instinctual urge to cover his junk with his hands. It’s made easier as it becomes apparent that Kenny’s paying no attention whatsoever to the junk in question.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Providing… closure? Right?”

“You can’t just _slide them on_ \- That’s gay.”

Kenny blinks up at him, eye contact happening for the first time since Kyle’s tactful entrance, “Well, yeah, I sure hope it is.”

Kyle kicks him in the stomach, a task made more difficult than expected with the restriction of smooth lace tangled around his calves.

It’s Kenny’s turn to pull back, _“_ Dude.”

Kyle’s face colors, “Sorry.”

“Okay,” Kenny huffs, and proceeds to move quickly enough for Kyle to assume that he fucking _blew it_ and he should’ve crawled back out of that window when he’d had the fucking chance. Seriously, when has being impulsive _ever_ worked out for him, what is wrong with his decision making skills lately- And then red ruffles are yanked upwards just above his kneecaps, Kenny is plopping down on the bed beside him, and he’s being pulled by his fucking waist onto Kenny’s lap, legs spread on either side of Kenny’s thighs, and scrambling hands eventually landing on his shoulders. Kyle’s not exactly vibing with the treatment. Or the inarguably girly positioning.

“I don’t love this,” Kyle informs him, tone more petulant than he would ever admit to.

Kenny’s patience is visibly thinning, “You can’t kick me in this position, so let’s just go with it for now.”

Guilt overrides disgruntlement, “Sorry. Really.”

Kenny tilts his head up and fits his lips with Kyle’s in what is probably meant to convey his forgiveness, but Kyle chooses to take it as a separate apology for moving things along at warp speed. That is until Kenny’s hands move upwards and begin peeling Kyle’s jacket off. Which is. Fine. He’d already lost this fight less than twenty four hours ago. It’s really not worth the fuss. Especially when he could be focusing on how Kenny is not so subtly trying to get him to open his mouth; A development that he is _much_ more okay with-

Mere milliseconds after the jacket falls begrudgingly to the floor, an unrelenting hand is tugging at his hat, “Woah-”

“You’re joking.”

Kyle glares at him, unprepared for the unbridled exasperation, “It’s cold in here!”

Kenny doesn’t insult him by voicing the argument of Kyle already being almost entirely nude.

“Well!” He flounders for literally anything that won’t paint him in a childishly insecure light, “You’re still-!”

“You saw me naked literally this morning. It’s not a special occurrence.”

And Kyle can’t argue with that point without unpacking some _things_ that are doubling down with duct tape and deadbolts at only the briefest of mention.

“Don’t make a big deal,” Kenny continues. Pleads, really.

It’s a familiar request. One that Kyle, as per usual, feels the need to vehemently reject to the very core of his being. He shockingly manages not to do so, as Kenny’s free hand moves over to his thigh, where the waistband of the panties have been digging into his skin. Fingers forcefully slip underneath the already much too taught lace, digging themselves somewhat painfully into his flesh as the straining material slowly starts to audibly tear.

Kyle is stupid hard. The room smells like strawberry cream.

His free hand moves over to Kyle’s other thigh, beginning to drag the garment upwards at a pace slow enough to completely banish the stilted but still remotely casual atmosphere. A new, unexpectedly intense leaf is turned over, the mood cemented as Kyle ducks his head to reach Kenny’s mouth with his own. Some previously held negative convictions about frenching begin the process of being expelled.

A thick fog of stupid clouds up Kyle’s brain and, probably shocked by the rare lack of struggle, desperately latches on with the most exuberant version of reckless abandon. Minutes pass. Panties are properly placed. Groping is had.

“We could’ve done this _months_ ago.”

Kyle is slightly shooketh, having been under the impression that speech was outside of the realm of possibility whilst grinding like he has bills to pay. He realizes that Kenny probably has more of a tolerance for this sort of stuff, which is disheartening for all of two seconds before the grip on his choice ass tightens and he’s pulled closer, improving the angle _immensely_. The experience has its perks.

“It’s dumb,” He eventually remembers to respond, despite being almost entirely incoherent at that point.

“It is dumb,” Kenny grins, dimples, tooth gap, freckles- The whole fucking kit and caboodle pulled out to effectively soften the blow from a punch to a pat, “But it’s also hot. That’s my zone- That’s me.”

Kyle isn’t in the right headspace to perform a cheer routine enthusiastic enough to truly get his feelings about the matter expressed, or to shut himself up, “You’re so smart, Kenny.”

Kenny snorts, which is not a cute noise, but Kyle’s never loved anything more, “Someone wants to come.”

Kyle manages to sneer, which is not a cute face, but, well, “Don’t be vulgar, dude.”

“Our dick’s are touching.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Stan walks with him to the bus the next morning. He had met him at the door of Kyle’s house, looking supremely concerned. Twenty four hours with no contact whatsoever- A rarity worthy of a considerable amount of worry. Kyle trying to brush it off as if it were anything else was a poorly constructed plan destined to fail.

Still, Kyle’s not expecting the question that comes after the crashing and burning of his shitty improvised lie. “Is this about Kenny?”

He panics, “I don’t know her.”

Stan laughs a little, wispy puffs of breath accompanying the sound as he nudges his shoulder, “Don’t worry about it too much, man.”

Which is exactly what he needs to hear. Especially with the bus stop coming into view and a blip of orange only just visible in the distance, uncharacteristically early. Unavoidable. Not a problem, of course. It’s not like Kyle’s ever been one to shy away from confrontation. He just usually goes into confrontations knowing for a fact that everyone will be angry and on different pages. The uncertainty of the situation has him debating whether or not diving in front of the bus when it arrives has less pros than cons.

“People grow apart,” Stan continues with a shrug, the pathetically empty book bag strapped to his back not hindering the movement in the slightest, “Nothing to feel bad about.”

“Right,” Kyle absentmindedly nods, knowing that Stan coming to his own simpler and entirely incorrect conclusion is the best case scenario this time around. He distracts himself from the distance closing in between him and the orange blip (now a clear silhouette) by putting himself in Stan’s shoes and attempting to see how that’s what he came up with.

It makes sense, is the only clear thought he has about the notion, after less than a full second of pondering. Kyle has problems letting go of relationships, that’s not a secret. This entire fiasco could very possibly have been him unconsciously trying to keep Kenny in his life. Right? Right. But last night had been _closure_ , as Kenny had said. So- So that was that. Right.

“Hey, Kenny,” Stan greets, unwittingly ending Kyle’s internal struggling with the matter and giving him the opportunity to go with the half assed answer he’s landed on and run with it, without having to do anything that might corrupt it’s logic. Like rationally thinking it through.

“Hey, dude,” Kenny gives a little finger wave, hands bare and red from the cold, “Kyle. No hat?” Yet another development he’s refusing to analyze.

He close enough now to see Kenny’s expression. His lazily smiling face doesn’t appear to have lost any sleep overcomplicating things. Kyle does his best to mirror the sentiment, with a calculated lack of smiling and an adage of apathy to really sell it.

“No.”

Kenny’s posture, if even possible, slumps further, “Oh.”

The bus pulls up with no Cartman in sight, something that he can’t properly bring himself to be happy about as he climbs into the vehicle first and slides into an empty seat. He quickly feigns sleep so as to avoid speaking with anyone whilst trying and failing to lessen the severity of the guilt twisting brutally in his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for watching my after school special. Leave me some spicy comments, constructive criticism is my kink.


End file.
